On the way into the playground Arina had opened the gate with some method of her own, by crumbling dry grass in her fingers and sprinkling it on the lock, but I’d never liked fiddling about with the spell “Bilbo” and I decided to bypass the fence in the Twilight. To my surprise the playground was locked on the first level of the Twilight too, and on the second it was surrounded by something like a line of wizened trees, with prickly branches protruding out towards the park. I examined this apparently dead hedge curiously. Dry tree trunks like that were more often encountered on the third level, but there they were scattered about chaotically, while these looked as if they had been planted deliberately. Or perhaps fixed into the ground. Fortunately, there was no need to go any deeper—this barrier was only a hindrance if you were trying to get into the playground, not get out of it. Whoever the Other was who had worked on the playground, he had certainly done a thorough job. I squeezed through the branches, walked away a bit and returned to the real world. After the cold and silence of the Twilight, the London park seemed warm and full of sounds. Somewhere in the distance I heard the subtle song of a reed pipe. I set off through the park, intending to leave it at some point closer to my hotel. On the way I came across a garbage can that had considerately been emptied before the park’s evening closing, and I lowered the two empty beer bottles into it.

What could be more delightful than an evening stroll through a deserted park?

The artless melody sounded closer and closer. And suddenly I saw the musician. Sitting there on the crooked trunk of an immense tree that had been bent over by the wind a long time ago and had carried on growing like that, almost parallel to the ground, was a little boy dressed in some kind of fanciful rags. The boy was playing his reed pipe, completely absorbed. Huge fireflies circled round him, as if they were dancing.

“Hey!” I called out to the young musician. I was so disconcerted that I asked in Russian: “Isn’t it late for you to be out here?”

The boy turned sharply in my direction. His milk teeth glinted snow-white, either in the glimmer of the fireflies or in the distant glow of street lamps on the Bayswater Road. The boy jumped down off the tree—and disappeared. The fireflies fluttered after him, with a jingling sound.

“Hell’s fucking bells!” I swore. “This is bullshit! I don’t believe in . . .”

But I didn’t actually finish the phrase.

Of course I don’t believe in fairies. It’s ages now since I even believed in Santa Claus.

But even so, I preferred not to say it.

Chapter 5

Chapter 5